A Game Of Chess
by ToryTigress92
Summary: Moriarty may be gone but the second most dangerous criminal in London remains, and now he's coming after Mycroft, Sherlock and their family. It's time for one last game, of cat and mouse, to protect all the Holmes brothers care about. Mycroft/OFC.
1. Chapter 1

A Game Of Chess

* * *

><p>"Can you go out and get some milk in, we're running out again," John called to his comatose flatmate on the sofa, swathed in blue silk and eying the ceiling glaringly.<p>

"Hmmm."

"And you could try cleaning up some of this mess, you know?" he called, checking his appearance in the mirror.

"Hmmm."

"And get dressed, Sherlock. You'll scare Mary away before you've even said two words to one another," John continued, Sherlock still blissfully ignoring him.

"Hmmm."

"Are you listening to anything I say?" he finally poked his head around the corner of the door, eying Sherlock.

No response.

"I'll take that as a no, then," John sighed. "Mycroft's cleverer than you!" he called, just to bait his flatmate.

Finally, he got some movement. Sherlock turned to stare at John, glaring at him instead of the ceiling.

"And where, in your narrow little brain, did you deduce that?" he drawled, John rolling his eyes at the insult.

"It got your attention, didn't it?" he retorted good-naturedly before his expression turned pleading. "Please, Sherlock just put some clothes on and tidy up."

"Why should I?" his flatmate drawled.

"Because if you do, I'll let you store body parts in the fridge again," John offered desperately. That was all he needed to say; Sherlock was off the sofa and in his room like a shot. John sighed and chuckled exasperatedly.

"And be polite!" he called, before rearranging his hair for the fifth time in the mirror, nerves making him jumpy.

* * *

><p>Mary Morstan rang the doorbell of 221B Baker Street with a fair amount of trepidation.<p>

She'd heard, and read, all about John's infamous flatmate, the consulting detective. Some terrorist had tried to dupe everyone into thinking he was a fraud, even making him jump off the roof of St Barts to make it appear he had committed suicide in disgrace. Then the truth had been exposed on national television nine months later and Sherlock Holmes had returned.

So it was fair to say that Mary was a little nervous to be meeting her boyfriend's flatmate and best friend.

Mary and John had been dating for three months, and it was going surprisingly well, considering John's odd working hours, his casework with Sherlock and the amount of trouble that they frequently found themselves ankle-deep in.

She supposed that went with the job of being John Watson's girlfriend.

So when John opened the door, the petite, blonde young woman smiled and kissed his cheek. With a grin, he pulled her into a more intimate kiss, wrapping his arms around her tightly, as she grinned and kissed back enthusiastically.

* * *

><p>"John! When you two have quite finished exchanging saliva, I rather thought I was supposed to be meeting this 'girlfriend' of yours," Sherlock called down, as John rolled his eyes at the disgust intoned in the word 'girlfriend'. He looked to Mary and smiled apologetically.<p>

"Don't mind him, he's just grumpy. No new cases at the Yard for a week, he's bored," John explained, taking Mary's jacket and ushering her upstairs. "Ten minutes and we'll go for dinner."

"Ok, sure," Mary replied, gathering her courage. They walked up the stairs, to Sherlock and John's flat and straight into a tall, forbidding figure in a tailored black suit and open collared purple shirt.

Mary gulped as Sherlock looked her over, piercingly, and struggled not to fidget under his scrutiny.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but John beat him to it. "Don't even think about it, Sherlock!" he snapped, eying his friend warningly. An unholy smile grew on Sherlock's aquiline features, as he reached for Mary's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mary," he smiled charmingly, planting a chaste, perfunctory kiss on her knuckles. "I can't think why John hasn't introduced us before."

"Nice to meet you too, Mr Holmes," Mary murmured nervously.

"Sherlock, please," he replied courteously, stepping away and chuckling at the mixed expressions of exasperation and shock in John's face.

"I think I would have preferred the showing off and the deductions," John muttered, glaring at Sherlock who just grinned.

"And you said I could never be charming," he threw over his shoulder, snatching up his violin and then proceeding to ignore the couple altogether. John rolled his eyes and smiled at Mary.

"Ignore him. Just be glad he wasn't worse," he told her, leading her into the sitting room. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable and I'll just finish getting ready."

Mary made an effort to smile easily and try to relax as she sat opposite the enigmatic figure cleaning his beloved violin, flicking on the TV for want of something to do.

* * *

><p>Sherlock merely smirked. This really was more fun than just telling someone their life history first. He'd get to that eventually.<p>

First he was going to enjoy making Mary squirm.

He eyed her intently, as she focussed on whatever boring feature was on the news.

Blonde, naturally so, pale but a dusting of freckles across her nose and one small mole on her forehead, hidden by her hair. Normal-looking teeth, normal figure, slender fingers, well-spaced on the armrest.

Secretary then.

A permanent one at that, if the expense of her clothes were anything to go by. Not designer but expensive enough that a temp would struggle to afford them, and still manage the bills.

Dull. Dull. Dull. Dull…

Sherlock happened to look at the TV screen, bored with John's latest paramour, only to freeze.

His eyes widened, as his hands tensed on the armrests, his violin slumping in his lap as he stared at the TV screen, showing footage of a partially destroyed house, large, formerly traditional looking in that old English style of manor house…

He knew those grounds, he knew that house.

In a suddenly explosion of movement, he stood up to grab his coat, sliding it on gracefully, slender hands already twining his scarf around his neck.

"Sherlock?" John asked, frowning as he walked in to the living room, looking at the TV screen first, then at Mary and Sherlock. "Is everything alright? Where are you going?"

Sherlock simply turned to look at him, then at the news before looking back to his friend.

He said one word. "Mycroft."

* * *

><p>And with that he was gone, out the door and down the stairs. John looked to Mary, who just shrugged, and then he glanced at the news.<p>

And froze.

A house had been destroyed in some kind of gas explosion, its occupants apparently killed…

The words 'gas explosion' sent uncomfortable shivers down his spine. As did the memory of the look on Sherlock's face as he rushed out the door.

Blank, impassively cool. The look on his face when he was hiding something he didn't want John to see.

Was this something to do with Mycroft? With Jessica and his godchildren?

Then the camera zoomed in on the house, and John froze. He knew that ruin of house.

"Shit," he breathed, before turning and rushing out the door after Sherlock, leaving Mary open-mouthed and staring behind them.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So the multi-chapter sequel to 'Ignorance Is Not Bliss'. There will be action, arse-kicking, BAMF-yness, Mycroft and Sherlock in disguises, Jessica in black leather, Mycroft in a blonde wig (Have you seen him in DW and the League of Gentlemen sketches? That man with a blonde wig….UNF) and a whole lot more. Sit back and enjoy the ride ;P**

**And check out the short film trailer, 'Cleaning Up', in which Mark plays an assassin. Guess Mycroft has to do his own legwork sometimes…**

**And the sight of him with a black coat and gun in his hand should **_**NOT**_** be so sexy, but it is. And look out for him in Being Human soon. He's an Old One, so vampy!Gatiss for us fan girls…**


	2. Chapter 2

A Game Of Chess

* * *

><p>The house, when John and Sherlock reached it, looked like something out of a WW2 film. Police swarmed over it like flies, and the yellow incident tape glared in the sun.<p>

Naturally, Sherlock ignored the tape and ducked under it, also ignoring the young constable who tried, in vain, to stop him.

"Sir! Sir, you can't go in there! This is a crime scene, you can't go in there!" she called out, as both Sherlock and John just ignored her and marched on. A burly police officer in overalls made the mistake of trying to physically stop Sherlock.

"Hey! You heard the PC, you can't go in there!" he told the consulting detective pompously, as Sherlock just stared him down.

"Tell me, Detective Constable does your wife know you're having an affair with the pathologist?" he snarled, making the other man back off in surprise.

"How do you-what the-!" he babbled, as John sighed wearily.

"Sherlock!" a familiar voice called, the pair turning to find DI Lestrade marching towards them, concern on his prematurely aged face. "You shouldn't be here."

"I think you'll find I have every right to be here. Where are they?" Sherlock snarled, eying the DI like he was a bug he wanted to squash. Lestrade sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair as he capitulated.

"Through here," he led the way to a small tent, away from the main ruin of the house, and inside to where three misshapen shapes, two far shorter than the other, were laid out. "Three bodies. We're having them transferred to Pathology soon, and we'll have to run their DNA on the database and see who they are…"

The one thing John never forgot about his service in Afghanistan was the stench of death. Poisonous, noxious; it infiltrated every fibre of one's clothes and hair until there was no getting rid of it. He was used to it, by now, but it was the one thing he hated about his cases with Sherlock. He glanced at his friend to see his fists clenched and his face paler than he had ever seen it.

"I can tell you who they are," Sherlock murmured, looking down at the cadavers coldly. "The two smaller corpses are my niece and nephew, Lara and Tom. The third will likely be Jessica Holmes, my brother's wife. Was there a fourth corpse?" he asked, looking to Lestrade, who appeared shaken by Sherlock's words.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry-" he began, but Sherlock stood with a fierce aggression, towering over the DI menacingly.

"Was there a fourth body?" he asked again, his voice tightly controlled, but it made John shudder anyway. He knew that voice all too well.

"We haven't found one yet, but-"

Sherlock turned away, his coat tails spreading behind him like wings, as John hastily followed Sherlock, leaving Lestrade in their wake.

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" he called, just as his phone buzzed. It was Mary. "Hey. Look, I'm sorry about rushing off," he began, still cold by the deaths of his godchildren and Jessica. But who? And why? There was no chance this could be a 'gas explosion', Mycroft was not the type to forget to have the pipes checked regularly on his house.

And where was Mycroft?

He quickly rattled off his excuses, relieved when Mary exclaimed her sympathy and her support, ringing off with a promise to call her later when he was finished consoling Sherlock.

He mentally snorted. Consoling Sherlock, ha, as if that would ever occur. No, the only thing that would 'console' Sherlock was to find and punish his family's killers.

* * *

><p>Despite all appearances, past and present, the Holmes brothers were fonder of one another than they let on. The bond of blood had only been strengthened by Sherlock's disappearance, one that Mycroft had unwittingly helped to perpetrate when he revealed parts of Sherlock's childhood to a captive Moriarty, and now…John almost felt sorry for the bastards who had done this. Sherlock would show no mercy.<p>

Sherlock was standing ten feet away, head down, hands in his pockets, eyes glaring at the muddy ground.

* * *

><p>Tentatively, John put out a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, unsurprised when the younger man moved away.<p>

What he wasn't prepared for was the small smirk on his friend's face. "Sherlock?" he asked. The smirk disappeared, as the consulting detective took John's arm and pulled him away, walking quickly.

"Don't say a word," he hissed from the corner of his mouth. "Don't look up, don't look back, just keep walking."

Mutely, John did as he was told although inside he was burning with curiosity. It wasn't until they were back in the taxi, on their way to London that Sherlock finally spoke, that small smirk reappearing on his austere mouth.

"They're alive." was all he said, quietly, glancing at John. The pair sat in silence for the rest of the ride, until they were just turning the corner into Baker Street from Marylebone Road, and Sherlock stopped the taxi. John clambered out, surprised to see Sherlock striding away in the opposite direction to their flat, and he followed.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" he called, panting as he tried to keep up with the taller, younger man. "Sherlock, where are we going? What do you mean, 'they're alive'?"

"Jessica and the twins are not dead," was all Sherlock replied, just as they were passing a telephone box and the phone started to ring. John knew that familiar trick very well. Sherlock ducked inside, picking up the phone expectantly. He appeared to listen for a few minutes before mumbling something resembling a 'Yes' into the receiver and put it down.

Just then a taxi pulled up, and Sherlock pulled John inside. He had a very odd feeling about all this.

But he stayed silent, as they drove away from Marylebone, heading towards the Docklands, before the taxi was forced to stop due to the heavy, rush hour, traffic of London.

"Come on, John," Sherlock opened the door of the taxi, pulling him into the waiting interior of a plush, government issue Jaguar. The traffic eased, their taxi drew away and they were left in the Jaguar, driving towards who knew where. John had lost his bearings hours ago.

"Alright," John finally sighed. "How do you know they're alive?"

Some people, who didn't know Sherlock, might think he was desperate, in denial, trying to stave off the inevitable truth by insisting his brother was alive. He knew better than to doubt Sherlock after all these years working together. If Sherlock said Mycroft, Jessica and the twins were alive, then they were alive.

"Three bodies, not four. I also know that while Mycroft was at home with the family this weekend, I also know that there several passageways and tunnels built in to the house," Sherlock replied. "The DNA checks will come up positive, but those bodies are merely anonymous cadavers, placed to throw our bomber off the scent."

"Bomber?" John asked. "Not Moriarty-?"

"Moriarty is dead, John. I watched him pull the trigger right in front of me. No, I rather think that Colonel Moran has decided to come out of hiding and play," Sherlock breathed, his jaw clenching. "And this time, I will catch him."

"And I guess that was Mycroft on the phone earlier," John continued, a slight incline of the head his answer. "So where are we going?"

"One of several boltholes in the City that Mycroft maintains, should he ever require a refuge. They'll be waiting for us," was all Sherlock said before he lapsed into silence.

* * *

><p>The silence reigned as the Jaguar drove on, sliding through the traffic of London as silently as its predatory namesake. And John's left hand remained steady through, as he watched his friend, eying the passing streets moodily. The car finally stopped, somewhere in White City, outside a towering block of flats, expensive and exclusive.<p>

John smirked. He figured Mycroft would have an expensive 'bolthole'. With a deep breath, he followed Sherlock up the steps and into the posh interior.


	3. Chapter 3

A Game Of Chess

* * *

><p>The moment they entered the lift, John glimpsed the receptionist apparently mumbling to thin air, as Sherlock pressed the button for the top floor.<p>

Clearly the receptionist was part of the operation too.

The lift reached the top floor, where a suited guard waited, leading them past all the numbered flats to the roof access, leading them up to the real top floor. The suited agent produced a small laminated key card, inserting it into a slit in the locked door.

The light flashed green, and the agent pressed his hand against a pad on the wall, a second light flashing green.

John's eyebrows rose with every security measure, while Sherlock chuckled.

"Mycroft bought every flat on the 20th floor, under different names of course, and this floor. He sealed off the lift access and installed a security door which requires key card entry and handprint identification. There are over twenty hi-resolution security cameras verifying our identities and that scanner only works with living tissue, so if an assailant attempted to simply cut off the guard's hand, it wouldn't work. As it is, only a handful of Mycroft's agents have access to the key card, on rotation, and of course Mycroft and Jessica themselves have key cards if needed," he explained quietly, while John whistled under his breath.

"Your brother's paranoia is unbelievable," he muttered.

"But necessary," Sherlock countered. "Much as I hate to admit it, he would be target no.1 should any extremist group wish to derail the British government. The public might be ignorant of who actually runs the country, but the criminal underworld certainly isn't."

John wasn't entirely sure he agreed with what Sherlock had told him, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. At least Mycroft had a smidgen more human empathy than his brother did.

As silence reigned once more, John decided to ask something which had been niggling at him since they had so hastily left Mycroft's ruined house on the outskirts of London.

"Sherlock? How did you deduce that those three corpses weren't Jessica, Lara or Tom?"

"Simple," Sherlock muttered. "It was obvious from basic conformation that the largest of the three bodies was a female; however there was a slight difference in height. Jessica is five foot, five inches. That corpse was a third of an inch too tall. As for the two smaller corpses, again minute differences in height and body conformation alerted me to the switch. The lack of a fourth body was also telling."

"They just might not have found Mycroft's 'corpse' then," John pointed out. Sherlock shook his head.

"John, I knew Mycroft was at home but it was unofficial. Officially Mycroft is in North Korea. If Mycroft survived, he would wish to continue that illusion, to make his attackers believe they had succeeded in killing his family, in order to lull them into a false sense of security," the consulting detective replied. "Our opponent wants Mycroft, and I, to come after him, no doubt believing that, blinded by grief, Mycroft will become an easy target, and endanger me into the bargain, making it easy to trap us."

"This guy clearly doesn't know your brother very well," John snorted. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

* * *

><p>The entire top floor was a luxurious penthouse, like something from one of those property channels. All white marble, plush carpets, wooden panelling and antiques dotting the rooms and walls.<p>

Sherlock and John followed the security agent into a large room populated with comfortable looking winged armchairs in front of an honest-to-God Victorian fireplace.

John wasn't surprised to see a suit of armour in one corner of the room.

And sitting in one of the armchairs, a crystal glass filled with whiskey cupped in one graceful hand was Mycroft.

John was inwardly surprised by the inner rush of relief at this physical proof of the elder Holmes' survival. He hadn't entirely forgiven Mycroft for his indiscretion with Moriarty, but he was glad he wasn't dead.

"John. Sherlock," he inclined his head in welcome, looking entirely at ease despite the events of the day, in his usual three piece suit.

"Mycroft," Sherlock replied coolly, walking to his brother and standing before the fire moodily. To John, he looked nothing more than the world's largest bat, with that dark coat silhouetted against the flames in the hearth.

"John? Sherlock?" a soft voice called, and Jessica walked in from another room, auburn hair clean and neat in a bun at the nape of her neck, slender figure draped in dark red linen, but John was unsurprised to see a bandage around her left wrist and a thin red line slashing her cheek in half. Clearly, Jessica hadn't got out as unscathed as her husband. With a warm smile, she embraced John, who hugged back.

"There's never a dull moment in this family, is there?" he asked jokingly, making Jessica snigger quietly. "How are Tom and Lara?"

"Fine. Asleep. It's the quietest they've been all weekend," Jessica sighed, her smile light but it didn't reach her eyes.

"And you?" he asked, peering deeply into her blue eyes for signs of distress or concussion. Her eyes looked cold, impassive but John wasn't fooled.

Jessica was pissed off.

"Well, having a maniac target one's children is enough to annoy anyone, I'd imagine," she replied breathily, already turning away to perch on the arm of Mycroft' chair.

"Quite," her husband agreed. John noticed Jessica seemed to lean against her husband slightly, Mycroft shooting furtive, sideways glances at her every moment he thought his brother and the godfather of his children weren't looking.

"It was Moran, wasn't it?" Sherlock murmured, turning away from the fire to glance at his brother. "The only question is why."

"I agree. The bomb he had laid in the cellar, while problematic, was unlikely to produce the required effect. We had plenty of time to reach one of the many escape routes I had built into the house years ago." the elder Holmes murmured. "Revenge is the most likely motive. After all, you have been exonerated, publicly so. Perhaps this was an attempt to lead you back into the game, to make you go after him."

"Possibly. I rather think Moran would seek vengeance upon us both," Sherlock countered. "What is more, I am right in thinking your presence at home was not expected?"

"No. He was supposed to be in North Korea but the visit was cancelled," Jessica cut in, intelligent blue eyes gleaming. "So you think me and the children were the true targets?"

"No, Sherlock and I are the targets, my dear," Mycroft explained. "You are just convenient leverage to persuade us to pursue the man. As it is, MI6 has confirmed a man matching Moran's description boarded a plane to Brussels, accompanied by this man."

Mycroft plucked a folder from the multitude on a side table, and passed it to Sherlock and John.

Inside was a photo of a man John recognised from the files of assassins who took lodgings in Baker Street during the Reichenbach incident. Beside that was the photo of a man of middling height, mousey-haired, swarthy and muscled. There was a distinctly malevolent look in his eyes.

Conrad Jameson. Petty thief, thug for hire and several shootings and fatal beatings ascribed to his doing, but never proved.

Sebastien Moran, on the other hand, was quite good-looking in contrast. Young, ex-Army, a former Colonel with the SAS, gone rogue. An expert marksman as well.

This was the man who'd had a gun trained on John as he had spoken to Sherlock on the phone, believing his friend was about to commit suicide. If he hadn't jumped…

John shrugged that thought away, and glanced at Mycroft. "You want Moran and this Conrad to think you're dead?"

"Jessica and the children, certainly," the government official conceded. "It would be impossible to fake my own death as officially, I was elsewhere. Now, Moran will be expecting me to come after him, once the DNA records return a positive ID on the bodies found in the ruin."

"Speaking of which, we have to cover the remaining avenues of attack. Moran cannot touch John, especially not at the moment, but John was not Moriarty's only target should I have refused to jump," Sherlock flicked the file shut, returning it to the side table.

"I have already thought of that. Two teams of MI5 agents have been despatched to keep an eye on your landlady and the Detective Inspector. I will arrange protective custody for them in due course."

"But what about Moran?" John asked. "When are we going after him?"

Both Mycroft and Sherlock stared at him intently, making John want to fidget. Jessica smiled at him in commiseration.

"In due course. I would rather our quarry lull himself into a false sense of security. Undoubtedly dangerous as he is, he is not Jim Moriarty," Mycroft eventually deigned to explain. "As it is, he will not be expecting me to do my own legwork. At most, he might expect me to assign several agents to Sherlock, and co-ordinate from London. He will be mistaken."

"This is personal," Jessica added, identical, shark-like grins on husband and wife's faces. John almost felt sorry for Moran. _**Almost**_.

* * *

><p>"Mamma?" a little voice called plaintively, making Jessica swing around in concern. "Daddy?"<p>

In the doorway stood Lara, the little toddler swaying slightly as she watched them all clustered around the fireplace. Her dark red hair gleamed like fire, as Jessica rushed to her. To John's everlasting surprise, Mycroft rose too and went to his daughter.

"What is it, darling? Can't sleep?" Jessica cooed, sweeping her daughter up into her arms. Lara shook her head, burying her face into her mother's shoulder.

"Tom snoring," was the child's answer, making all four adults grin. Mycroft smoothed his daughter's unruly curls, and pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Try to ignore it, dearest," he told her. John almost looked away. The sight of a fatherly Mycroft Holmes was almost…weird. In a strangely sweet way. "And it is 'Tom _**is**_ snoring', dearest."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Mycroft, she's only a year old. I think we'll have plenty of time to instil correct grammar later," she hissed at him. Mycroft shook his head ruefully. John chuckled, watching the little family scene.

A glance in Sherlock's direction found the consulting detective's face torn between comic disgust and shock. Clearly he hadn't expected such openly loving behaviour from his brother.

"Jessica, perhaps you could take her back to bed?" Mycroft whispered to his wife, as Lara nuzzled her father's hand. John's eyes softened at such vulnerability, such innocence.

Innocence Moran nearly destroyed. It only hardened his heart, resolved his determination to accompany the Holmes brothers on their hunt.

"John, why don't you accompany her?" Sherlock suddenly suggested. John eyed him warily. "I know you were worried about your godchildren earlier."

John and Jessica's eyes met, and a bolt of understanding rushed between them. The Holmes boys were going to leave them behind.

Or try to. If John knew Jessica, and they had grown closer over the year since the twins' birth so he did know her quite well now, she would have anticipated this and would have planned accordingly.

Wordlessly, they left the room.

* * *

><p>Sherlock waited exactly five minutes before speaking, low and quick.<p>

"You know as well as I that Jessica likely suspects we will attempt keep her and John out of this affair,"

"Undoubtedly," Mycroft sighed wearily, looking after his wife. "She lost one child and her first husband before, and her resolve to allow nothing like it to happen again is considerable. As will be John's."

"I know," Sherlock conceded. "We will need to distract them before we make our move."

"I have my ways," Mycroft smirked, eliciting a shudder from his little brother.

"Please, Mycroft. I didn't need that mental image," Sherlock muttered, while his brother just chuckled and moved away.

* * *

><p>John waited until Jessica had put Lara back to bed, soothing her until she fell asleep before joining him in the corridor.<p>

"You know Mycroft and Sherlock will try to leave us behind," John began quickly. Jessica nodded.

"No doubt, they will attempt to distract us. Their first move will be to track this associate of Moran's, this Conrad Jameson. No doubt Moran will have gone to ground, and Jameson will be our way in," she mused. "As for the boys, I know Mycroft's methods of distraction all too well…"

"Sherlock would probably try to drug me," John smirked mirthlessly, trying not to think too deeply about Mycroft's methods of distraction.

"I have an antidote which would counteract most types of sedative immediately. It depends on how well you can act," she replied. "As for theirs plans, unbeknownst to them, I planted a bug underneath Mycroft's blazer collar when I passed him earlier. If I just…" she murmured, popping her Blackberry from her skirt pocket, John staring at her incredulously. She just grinned. "Turn this on; we can hear their plans without them knowing."

John smiled and shook his head. "You Holmes are nuts."

Jessica grinned. "I guess that makes you an honorary Holmes as well then."


	4. Chapter 4

A Game Of Chess

* * *

><p>Mycroft sighed, inwardly girding his loins, as he sought Jessica out.<p>

'Girding his loins'. He had always found the term ridiculous, but since marrying Jessica, he was finding the term applied quite a lot to their relationship.

And this was going to be difficult. Distracting Jessica sufficiently to ensure she could not interfere, let alone accompany, him and Sherlock on their chase.

He could rely on Sherlock to fulfil his part bluntly; he would just stab a syringe of sedative into John's arm and ensure he was comfortably situated. Jessica would require a little more…persuasion before he could even think about the syringe of sedative currently residing in his suit blazer's pocket.

He just knew his task was going to be difficult when he poked his head into their room, and saw Jessica waiting for him, arms crossed, a Sig Sauer clutched delicately in one hand.

Sighing, he closed the door behind him, sliding the catch across silently.

"And where do you think you're going?" he asked silkily, deciding to go on the offensive. Pretending that he didn't know that Jessica knew his and Sherlock's plans would be counterproductive.

And since this would be their last encounter for at least a few weeks, if not longer, he wanted it to be satisfactory.

More than satisfactory, actually. Ever since they had got away from the ruined house, via a secret tunnel Mycroft had had dug years before and had kept off the official blueprints, he had felt his control shifting. It manifested itself in small ways; his jaw tensing, his hand fisting, the constant desire to keep his eyes and his hands on his wife and children, reassuring himself as to their reality.

It was damned distracting, and that he did not need.

"I think you know very well," she muttered, turning away. "No amount of manipulation, persuasion or ordering me about will stop me."

He sighed. "And what of Lara and Tom? They need their mother."

"They need their father too, but there you go," she shrugged. "They will just give me an extra incentive to find Moran and tear his head off."

"And _**that**_ is precisely why you shouldn't come. You're too involved," he pressed.

"And you're not?" she muttered, one fine eyebrow arching arrogantly. Mycroft could have slapped himself over the head for that one; he'd walked straight into it.

She turned away, presenting her back as she strode to a table where her cleaning kit and other weapons lay. Mycroft knew she liked to clean her weapons when she had to think. As his eyes fell to her bandaged wrist, badly lacerated and sprained during their escape after the explosion, he also knew he'd have to take drastic steps if he wished to keep her out of harm's way.

Unlike Sherlock, he knew he could not just administer a sedative to knock her out until they had gone, and then transfer her and John somewhere safe and secure until their return. She would see it coming from miles away.

At least when it came to just jabbing a syringe into her arm. He would have to be far subtler.

Luckily, thanks to the Technology Branch at MI6, he had an ace up his sleeve.

And rather more fitting for a husband ensuring his wife remained out of harm's way.

He stood behind her, hands gently but possessively encircling her waist, pulling her back against him. She tensed in his embrace for a moment, but it washed away when he pressed his lips to her throbbing pulse. He felt the vibration of a suppressed moan against his tongue as he moved down, relishing the feel of firm, warm, very much _**alive**_ flesh beneath his palms.

Jessica's breath shuddered from her body, as she turned around in his hold, facing him with a disapprovingly cocked eyebrow, yet her body trembled with desire in his arms. "If you think seducing me is going to get you anywhere, Mycroft Holmes, then-" she began, but he cut her off.

"Perish the thought," he murmured, lowering his mouth to hers. She responded avidly, tilting her head back to deepen the kiss, expertly taking control of the caress of their lips, only for Mycroft to take it back. He pressed her back against the wall, one hand sunk deep in her auburn locks, the other clenched around her hip.

The kiss turned urgent, Mycroft pressing possessive, needful caresses on her lips, her cheek, her neck. Jessica drew her mouth down his jaw, nuzzling the softer skin of his jugular before he drew her lips back to his.

She realised too late. When she drew back, her eyes were glazed; struggling to focus and it wasn't just desire. Her weight in Mycroft's arms was growing heavier, as her body turned limp.

"You…sneaky bastard," she gasped, as her knees failed her. He held her against him tightly, pressing his lips back against the curve of her neck. "Sedative…in the…lip balm."

He didn't ask how she knew. No doubt she tasted it on his lips, but too late to stop its effects. "Don't fight it, dearest," he murmured softly. He swung her up and into his arms, her knees draped across one arm, her head cradled against his shoulder. His wife was strong, but not strong enough to fight a sedative.

"Give my…compliments…to the tech…guys," her speech became slower, every word laboured, as he laid her down on their bed, tenderly pushing a strand of hair back from her eyes. As her eyes finally fluttered shut, he felt a slight wrench in his gut but ignored it. He was doing the right thing, keeping her out of this. Moran was dangerous, and Jessica too precious to risk.

He sighed, finding a curious sort of…ache, in the area of his sternum. Quite odd really, that the term 'heartache' was accurate. But he was doing the right thing.

Letting vulnerability show that he would never let her see while conscious, he pressed a kiss to her neck, and then her unresponsive lips, whispering the words against them.

"I cannot abide the risk of losing you, my Jessica. I will keep you safe," he promised her, before turning and quickly leaving the room.

* * *

><p>Unlike his brother, Sherlock was not quite so subtle.<p>

While untrained, at least compared to John, Sherlock had the martial advantage when it came to height and agility.

And he was sneaky. Very sneaky. And fast.

* * *

><p>He followed John into the living room, after visiting Lara and Tom, the syringe clutched in one fist, just waiting for the opportune moment to strike.<p>

He knew his friend would likely feel betrayed, hurt, and angered by this, but Sherlock had little choice. Moriarty had so nearly destroyed him before, and he would not allow that to happen again. He pondered the idea that the ghost of Moriarty was seeking his revenge against Sherlock through Moran, but it was rather too poetic, even for the dramatic consulting detective.

John didn't turn away from the fireplace, conveniently presenting an easy target for Sherlock, as he took his chance.

"Sherlock…?" he choked, spinning around as the syringe emptied into his arm. The drug was quicker than the one Mycroft had used on Jessica, and John didn't have time for another word, as he started to collapse. Sherlock caught him, hefting his limp form with no small difficulty since John was of heavier build than he, and deposited him on the sofa. He paused, leaning over his most constant companion, and sighed.

John looked so young when asleep, the cares and scars of his military career wiped away, the wrinkles he'd gained since moving into 221B Baker Street smoothed down.

He knew that if he had to, he would jump off a thousands roofs if it meant John was safe. He would make him safe again. Figuratively speaking, of course, since he couldn't exactly stop him from getting run over by a drunk driver, as such, or developing cancer but he could prevent this. He would stop Moran.

"It's time, Sherlock," Mycroft called from the door. Sherlock turned and stood, for a moment glimpsing pain in his elder brother's expression, before it was suppressed behind a mask of ice. It was habitual to them both, their common bond as brothers, this ability to switch off any vestige of emotion entirely.

It was what allowed them to function, since the arrival of John into Sherlock's life, and Jessica into Mycroft's. And not forgetting Lara and Tom.

He'd never tell anyone, or admit it, even under torture but he was rather fond of the little brats. And he would take great delight in being the stereotypical mischievous Uncle when they were older, just to see Mycroft's blood pressure go up. He might be getting along with his older brother now, but that didn't mean he couldn't needle him for fun now and again.

"Is the security team ready?" Sherlock asked, turning his back on his friend and joining his brother.

Mycroft had arranged security until they reached Dover, at which point they would travel separately and incognito. Once in France, Mycroft had favours and connections he could call in but they would be on their own.

Personally, Sherlock preferred it that way.

"Assembled and waiting downstairs," Mycroft replied brusquely. "Our equipment and travel documents will be waiting for us at the drop point."

The brothers continued on in silence, taking the lift down to the garage level, where a clunky old delivery van awaited them, as well as a decoy Jaguar.

It was deserted.

Frowning, they walked forward, rounding the vehicles to see their security team knocked out, hog-tied and out for the count. A slender brunette awaited them, in a smart-pinstriped suit. Sherlock could tell from the slight bulge under her arm that she was armed.

For one moment, he mistook her for 'Anthea'.

Then she turned, a smug smile on her lips, the keys to the van on her finger, while another man, short, stocky, sandy hair hidden beneath a brown wig, clothed in a nondescript black suit, identical to the ones the unconscious MI6 agents all around them were wearing, stepped out from behind the vehicle.

Jessica and John.

* * *

><p>"Why so surprised, boys?" Jessica asked, almost laughing at the look of sheer shock on her husband and brother-in-law's faces. "You didn't seriously believe it would be that easy to leave us behind?"<p>

"Nice try, but…" John trailed off, having to hold in his laughter. "I think the hardest part was having to play dead until you left."

"Jessica, how-?" Mycroft began, still stupefied as she smirked and stepped forward.

"I'll explain as we drive, shall I?" she offered. "I purposely dressed like 'Anthea' so we could make our getaway undetected."

And with that, she ignored the van and led the way to the Jaguar, explaining as she went.

"It was simple really. It was easy to anticipate that you would attempt to leave us behind in protective custody, and that knowing our mutual stubbornness, you would attempt to sedate John and I," she began. "With you Sherlock, it was easy to anticipate a more blunt approach, and I gave a John a general antidote. It counteracts most known sedatives."

Sherlock and Mycroft hadn't moved, full brotherly, identical glares creeping onto their faces. John didn't know whether to laugh or run.

"I knew you wouldn't try something so…brash, Mycroft so I too took the antidote. Have to admit, the sedative concealed within lip balm was tricky but the antidote worked. After you left, I dressed, joined John and we rushed down here in time to take out the security team and meet you. Impressed?"

Mycroft just glared.

"You really should send those boys on some refresher courses, though dear," Jessica needled. "How long did it take to finish them, John? A minute? Two?"

"It was only two each, so about a minute I think," John agreed, already sliding into the front passenger seat of the Jaguar. He turned and eyed the two Holmes boys coolly. "You didn't think you'd get rid of us that easily, did you?"

"I phoned ahead and ordered more documents and equipment, darling, so no need to fret," Jessica called. "Shall we? We do have a timetable."

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, and sighed. Time to admit defeat.

"It's your fault. She's been spending too much time around you!" he spat at his brother, before dramatically flouncing towards the Jaguar.

"I rather think John has picked up a few…undesirable traits of yours as well, brother mine," Mycroft snapped sarcastically, resignedly sliding into the back seat with John and Sherlock. He met Jessica's gaze in the rearview mirror, and glared.

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she grinned, and started the engine.


	5. Chapter 5

A Game Of Chess

* * *

><p>It was another busy day at Brussels Airport. In the teeming multitude of thousands which passed through its doors, tourists, businessmen and women, politicians, celebrities, the rich and bored….it was easy to lose oneself.<p>

Moran would undoubtedly have people, perhaps even paid cronies within the security guards, watching every arrival, watching every face, looking for the ones he wanted.

They didn't disappoint.

At Customs, a young man was patiently, if contemptuously, enduring the security guards patting him down after he'd set off the metal detector. He was scruffy, dressed in walking trousers and a raincoat, a small rucksack waiting for him on the scanner's conveyor belt. Messy auburn curls hung in his eyes, a thin, austere mouth torn between smirking and frowning.

Finally the security guards stood back, and he collected his rucksack, eying them sneeringly as he walked off.

* * *

><p>At 14:00 pm, a smartly turned out figure emerged from the airport doors. He was tall, pale, with blonde hair which was artfully arranged away from piercing, cool blue-grey eyes and an aristocratic face. His trim body was dressed in a dark suit, shirt and tie, a gleaming leather briefcase in one hand. A chauffeur held a card bearing the name 'Mr Hammond' stepped forward with a smile and proffered hand.<p>

Two men arriving separately, completely different from the other. But had anyone chanced to look into these men's eyes, they would see a kindred, chilling fire in their depths, a fierce intelligence, and a sense of purpose which was as unyielding as it was deadly.

* * *

><p>But there were two that Moran did not expect, did not warn his informants to look for.<p>

After all, one was dead and the other in hiding.

John wasn't sure he'd recognise himself if he looked in a mirror right then. He was pretty sure he would give himself away if he did, because he would stand there, staring at his reflection like an idiot.

The Eurostar swept into the station, the streamlined train having borne them from London, after waiting for Mycroft and Sherlock to depart, then donning their aliases and following.

They would meet them at Mycroft's hotel, in secret of course. Jessica had assured him; they had plenty of ways to get in, undetected.

Beside him, Jessica reclined in her first class seat, designer sunglasses obscuring her eyes, auburn hair hidden by a wig designed to look like dyed blonde hair. Long, false nails coloured an extreme shade of blue complimented the cream eggshell suit, the skirt stretching taut across her legs. Beside her rested a cane.

On her left ring finger was her wedding ring glinting in the early evening light, matching one on his left hand.

John was dressed in a suit every inch as expensive and tailored as Jessica's, or even one of Mycroft's. He felt ridiculous, the scarlet tie too tight around his neck. He reached up a finger to attempt to loosen it.

"Stop it!" Jessica hissed without taking her eyes from her manicured, false nails. "You have to wear that suit like you were born with it."

"I'm trying. I never liked suits," he hissed back, relaxing back into his seat and lowering his hand back to the armrest.

"No, John doesn't like suits. You're not John; you're Carlos Draxis, Greek yacht designer. He does like suits," she replied tersely. John sighed, but tried to do as she advised. It was easy for Jessica and Mycroft; _**this**_ was their life, on a regular basis. Even Sherlock could adopt a role without effort, he'd seen it himself.

He, however, was struggling.

He recalled those largely useless Drama lessons he'd had at secondary school, and took a deep breath, passing it off as a sigh. He was Carlos Draxis, Greek yacht designer. He spoke little English, was notoriously tempestuous and liked to live life was decadently as he could. 41, and starting to show it, and of course, he had the perfect trophy wife, 30 years-old Andrea Gavrik, originally from Georgia, Russia.

Of course, Jessica could not only imitate a perfect Russian accent, she could speak the bloody language too.

Forcing that thought aside, he settled back into the persona of Carlos Draxis that he was building in his head, allowing his body to relax, to recline in his first-class seat insouciantly, as he imagined Sherlock would do, the way he sat at home, in his favourite armchair. He banished memories of military discipline that would see him sitting in his seat, rigid-backed and alert, ready to spring at a moment's notice.

He felt Jessica's appraising look, and eyed her coolly. She grinned, before her now habitual bored expression returned. "Good," she whispered.

* * *

><p>At the platform, he made sure to make a great fuss, gesturing and gesticulating in as broken English as he could manage in order to get his injured wife, hurt in a jet skiing accident in the Seychelles three months before, to the head of the queue for Customs.<p>

The assistant took their passports, eying them carefully. "Staying long?" he asked, in accented English. John made sure to sniff haughtily, and looked away, bored leaving Jessica to answer.

"Yes," she whispered huskily, taking off her sunglasses and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. "Recovering, you know, from my accident," she gestured gracefully to her cane, and the impressive limp she had faked all the way up the platform. The Customs officer smiled, eyes drawn to Jessica's exposed tastefully curves as she leaned on the countertop.

"Oh, how bad for you," he commiserated.

"Yes. No more jet skiing for me," she laughed hollowly, taking back their passports. "Forgive my husband, he doesn't know much English. Although it has its advantages," she smiled, winking before John decided to take her arm, as he felt a barely English literate, jealous husband should with a Customs officer staring down her cleavage, and Jessica smirking coyly.

"H-have a nice trip!" the Customs officer called shakily, as Jessica waved, and John sighed through gritted teeth.

"If Mycroft saw that, he'd explode, and I would be next," he hissed from the corner of his mouth, making Jessica laugh.

"Oh, darling," she trilled, still in character and her Russian accent. "Lucky for us, I know how to handle my husband."

With a sly wink, she walked off to their waiting limousine, somehow still making it look like a saunter even with a cane and a limp. John shook his head, pretty sure he was still very much in character. Or just channelling Mycroft.

* * *

><p>She kept up a barrage of inane chatter about shopping and spas all the way to their hotel, and base of operations, and John was glad his alias didn't need to reciprocate. He didn't think he could have kept up if he tried.<p>

* * *

><p>She took charge at the hotel again, imperiously demanding all due respect and deference from the hotel staff. As soon as the door closed on their suite, John went to speak but she held a finger to her lips, before reaching into her purse and pulling out a lipstick.<p>

She placed it on the marble topped coffee table and twisted it once, exposing the scarlet tube of lipstick inside, and then sighed in relief.

"We can speak freer now, but keep your voice down," she murmured, quickly stepping out of her heels and throwing aside her cane.

"What is that thing?" he asked, nodding towards the lipstick. Jessica smiled.

"Simple. A bug killer with a difference. It projects a number of appropriate sounds into the bugs, creating a second layer of sound so our voices, as long as we don't shout, can't be heard. The tech boys at SIS gave it to me for my last assignment," she explained. "Now Mycroft is waiting for us in the suite on the top floor, and Sherlock is meeting us there."

"How will we get up there?" John asked. "I take it you don't have some false camera footage in there too?"

Jessica just smiled. "Mycroft purposely booked these rooms. Most of the surveillance will be internal, bugs, cameras etcetera but not on the outside of the building. No, we're going to go up the fire escape."

* * *

><p>Their hotel was an old one, the architecture lovingly restored, but it was clustered on all sides by other hotels and casinos, restaurants and exclusive couture boutiques. John popped the 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the door to dissuade any maids or porters, while Jessica changed out of her attire, hiding her auburn hair with a black hooded jumper this time, and slipping into jeans and trainers. John did the same, relieved to shed the restrictive suits of Carlos Draxis, and gestured to the lipstick bug killer when Jessica opened the balcony windows.<p>

"What about that?" he asked. She shook her head.

"No, if there are any bugs in here, our opponents are currently hearing me complaining loudly in Russian about our rooms, and you grunting nonverbally while you listen to the news. The tech boys are very good at simulating voices, now come on," she pulled him outside, hooking one hand into the black railings of the fire escape and pulling it down. She climbed up first, John following after a wary glance at their surroundings, his soldier's brain quickly identifying several places where surveillance could be hiding, or a sniper.

The bathroom window was open and they slipped inside, careful to obscure their faces from any surveillance. It didn't matter if John was seen, exactly, but it was vital that Jessica wasn't seen and identified by Moran.

The inside of Mycroft's bathroom was considerably larger, and more ornate, than theirs. John stared at the giant marble bathtub standing proudly on gilt feet, surrounded by marble tiling in black, a power shower in one corner, shining and unused, the usual amenities placed around the room. He followed Jessica into the main living area, and he stared even more.

The curtains were drawn to prevent any spying, and Mycroft sat, illuminated by a soft Tiffany lamp, the gentle, buttery light making his golden hair and pale skin gleam.

"John. Jessica, you arrived safely? No trouble?" he inquired by way of greeting. Jessica rolled her eyes.

"Do you have such little faith in me?" she asked, joining him on the sofa. John looked around for a similar device to Jessica's, and eyed the innocuous looking Blackberry. Mycroft just smirked.

"Where's Sherlock," John asked.

"On his way. Due to his higher risk of being recognised and followed, his methods of meeting up with us will have to be subtler. Luckily, Sherlock is not unversed in the art of disguise," the elder Holmes replied.

_The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight_.

John chuckled, remembering Sherlock's favourite saying. A moment later, there came a knock at the door.

Mycroft stood to answer it, disappearing into another hallway, some hushed talking, then two pairs of footsteps returned.

Mycroft and….

Sherlock.

Sherlock was dressed in the hotel porter's uniform, all maroon and gold piping. He looked ridiculous.

John had to restrain himself from bursting into laughter.

Sherlock eyed him warily, glaring at him before flouncing past to cast himself on the sofa. "Not a word," he growled to both Jessica and John, who hid their grins and attempted to look innocent.

And failed. Miserably.

"Well, now, since we're all gathered," Mycroft took a seat beside Jessica once more, facing Sherlock. "We must decide our next move. I would recommend, reconnaissance and intel-gathering."

"What have your sources learned?" Sherlock asked, eying his brother.

"Our target has a penchant for some more…_unusual_ tastes in entertainment shall we say? That may be one such way, but first we must find him. He has gone to ground, but if he follows his established pattern we may be able to track him," Mycroft explained.

"What is his established pattern?" John asked, Jessica watching all three men carefully.

"We know Mr Jameson will have been paid by Moran for his assistance on his operation. Essentially, he will likely have been cut loose, but he is still our way to Moran. He will make a deposit of his ill-gotten gains at the Central Bank of Brussels, which we must infiltrate and insert a surveillance camera of our own into their system so we may identify him and track him down," the elder Holmes continued.

"Do we have facial recognition software?" Jessica asked. Mycroft glanced to the sleek silver laptop sitting on his coffee table, as well as gesturing to a black briefcase beside the sofa.

"As well as a DNA recognition pad we will insert, if we can, where it will mostly likely pick up Jameson's fingerprints," he added. "My sources indicate that Mr Bernstrom, the chairman of the Central Bank, will deal with Mr Jameson directly, so we must first infiltrate his private office in order to get to Jameson."

"How?" John asked. Sherlock just looked bored.

"A Mr Hammond has secured an appointment with the chairman tomorrow afternoon at 1:30 pm. Of course, accompanied by his assistant," Mycroft gestured to Jessica who narrowed her eyes at the stereotypical role she would be forced to play, but acceded for the good of the assignment. John frowned. Who would be Mr Hammond?

Then he remembered that was Mycroft's alias. Mr George Hammond, antique dealer and money launderer on the side, as well as dealing in illegal antiquities and weapons.

"What will Sherlock and I be doing?" he asked. Mycroft turned his eye to the pair, consideringly.

So he told them. And John had to admit, it was brilliant. Even Sherlock looked intrigued.

This might just work after all.

* * *

><p>The plan needed John to go with Sherlock, to his hostel, there to start their masquerade, so he slipped into a spare porter's uniform Sherlock had smuggled along with room service into Mycroft's suite, and placed a pair of thick-framed glass on his nose. He eyed them caustically.<p>

"What, no moustache and fake nose?" he asked, making Sherlock snigger even as Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Do try to take this seriously, John. I fear my brother has rubbed off on you," he sighed wearily, from his position on the sofa.

"And you say that like it's a bad thing," Sherlock retorted, teasingly, before flouncing out the door with the trolley, John hurrying in his wake. The door closed, as Jessica emerged from the bathroom, now dressed to look like 'Anthea' but blonde once more, although this time a natural blonde, and the perfect PA.

Mycroft eyed her as she crossed to the minibar, rummaging inside for mineral water, the pencil skirt pulling tightly over her curves and smirked. Wolfishly.

They had a whole night to waste, after all, and why not take their charade of employer and PA a step further? Who knew stereotypes could be useful once in a while.

He stood, and silently struck.

Jessica straightened from her foraging, and into Mycroft's arms. He placed the bottle of water down on the sideboard, before returning his grip to her waist.

"Contrary to John's expectations, I will not explode about your little flirting session at the Customs desk," he growled in her ear. She just smirked, nestling back into his hold.

"Watching us on the CCTV, darling? Shame on you!" she teased, smirking. "At least it fitted my character."

"Hmph!" he grunted, starting to ever-so-gently run his palms down her tailored suit, sliding his hands over her stomach and up to her ribcage.

"Just as long as you don't get _**too**_ in character, dearest," he whispered huskily, in her ear as she shivered and arched back against him, running one hand through his blonde hair. Just before their lips met, she grinned and whispered,

"You look sexy as a blonde."


End file.
